


herbarium

by EmmG



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Moral Ambiguity, This game has ruined me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: there's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the streetdrabbles about love as experienced with each of the characters.





	herbarium

**Author's Note:**

> I should say that I use "she" for MC as it breaks immersion for me if I don't. Feel free to request anything you'd like, I don't mind.

Orange blossoms aren’t as beautiful as apple blossoms. The petals are white – pristine – and each as symmetrical as the last – balanced and perfect. Apple blossoms, on the other hand, are crumpled silk stained a pale cherry at the edges.

Rika is unhappy in the orange grove. Yet she is so beautiful with her sad eyes and hair as light as the flowers above her. Despair looks fetching on her; she is made to be clad in misery.

“Will you still love me if I smile?” Rika asks. Her voice is a lilt, ever soft, traveling through blossoms and darker, longer hair to caress the shivering tip of an ear.

“Yes,” she says simply – _she_ who made V change but didn’t leave with him.

“But what if I don’t ever want to smile? What if I want to bite and claw and scratch?”

 _She_ , who inherited all of V’s kindness but none of his duplicity, says that yes, yes of course, how could it ever be otherwise. And that word, that whispered yes, is more delicious than countless promises breathed once upon a time beneath a scorching sun.

_Yes, yes yes._

“You can also cut,” Rika reads from _her_ lips.

“And maim.”

“And maim,” _she_ echoes.

They can be happy in the orange grove. Here petals are flecks of ivory, but they too can know color. Rika offers them red. First just a smidge and then a droplet as it rolls down _her_ lower lip.

Rika kisses _her_ bloodied mouth, knowing the crimson has made it to her own teeth. And there is nothing but the persistent staccato of _yes yes yes_ which, like a fury, rages within the confines of her skull.

They can be happy in the orange grove, Rika thinks again. They don’t need the imperfection of apple blossoms – they can paint their own and be indelicate together. They need not adhere to any standard of excellence. They can do without the sun, without the moon even.

If _her_ eyes were to ever sparkle too bright, Rika would pluck them out without resistance.


End file.
